


Femoral

by Abbie



Series: Bound by Blood [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood Drinking, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/pseuds/Abbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day chasing down the criminal element of Starling and an interrupted feed, Oliver is riding the ragged edge of hunger when he takes Felicity home for a midnight bite. However, a minor injury forces them to make alternate arrangements from the norm, and the lines of their relationship—donor, partner, friend... more—blur further than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Femoral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosieTwiggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieTwiggs/gifts).



> A much belated birthday gift for Rosie, and a prompt fill for "femoral", this addition to Rosie's Bound by Blood universe got a little bit away from me.
> 
> EDIT: LET IT BE KNOWN THE TITLE HAS CHANGED BECAUSE ROSIE IS A DICK WHO MAKES FUN OF MY HASTY "whatever fuck it" DECISIONS

Oliver pulled the Ducati to a stop in front of Felicity’s townhouse, swallowing hard as he pulled the key from the ignition. His senses were an over-alert jumble, the vibration of the motor snuck under his skin and rattling in his bones, in his teeth—in the fangs that kept reflexively descending every few moments from the hunger that gnawed his gut. Felicity’s arms were a tight, warm band around his middle, her head a hard bump between his shoulder blades in his helmet.

Now that the the wind no longer whipped around him, he could smell her again—the soft, faded scents of her soaps and shampoo, the thin salt of the night’s anxious sweat from chasing down multiple, coordinated targets. And under all of it, under her skin, the hot iron tang of her blood.

“Felicity,” he rasped, gently settling his hand over her locked wrists still snug against his stomach. “We’re here, you can let go.”

His fingers circled her wrist loosely, her veins thrumming beneath the thin skin, and for a moment, Oliver’s eyelids dropped heavily to half mast, eyes unfocusing in a red haze, mouth falling open to accommodate the full length of his fangs.

They  _throbbed_  to pierce her skin, puncture her vein, his tongue itched to lap at her skin, drink her down—

Felicity sat up straight, pulling her arms from his waist and the heat of her body from his back.

Oliver shuddered and swallowed again, shaking his head sharply. He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat, closing his lips over his fangs before he hit the kickstand of the bike and stood.

He stepped onto the sidewalk and watched as Felicity pulled his helmet off, her hair a wild, wind-frizzed tumble. She set the helmet on the seat and grimaced, patting her hair down with a hopeless expression. “Sorry. It’s not that I’m  _scared_  of motorcycles, but it’s been a long day. And trying to ride this thing at 50 miles an hour in a skirt designed to be floaty is a risky adventure I could live forever without repeating.”

“It’s fine,” he murmured absently, his attention drawn to her hands untucking her thin, blue circle skirt from beneath her thighs.

The world slowed for a moment, narrowing to her slender fingers plucking at her skirt, to her shapely, smooth,  _long_  legs astride the chassis of his bike; firm thighs, full, curvy calves, slender ankles strapped into black mary janes.

His teeth pulsed and his cock twitched, and oh, Oliver was  _so_  hungry.

A breeze kicked up, tickling at the sweat on the back of his neck, and he shivered, abruptly snapping back to himself as Felicity stood and swung her leg carefully over the bike. She picked up the helmet and held it up to him in question.

“Uh,” His words were thick, heavy around his fangs. He gestured just behind where she’d been sitting. “Compartment.”

Her brows flicked high, eyes narrowing on his tucked lips as she groped the compartment open and stuffed the helmet inside. “It’s hitting you hard, huh.”

Oliver sighed harshly through his nose, wrenching his jaw to one side and glaring at the sidewalk. “I should just go. I haven’t been— _this_  hungry in a long time. I shouldn’t—”

“Oliver,” She stepped into his space, resting her fingertips on the inside of his elbow. He drew in a quick breath and swallowed down the scent of her. He met her eyes reluctantly, hers calm and sure and bright, bright blue. “Can we not do that this time? You know how you are, when you’re like this. You’ll just drain your stock of blood bags and still not be sated.”

He hummed irritably, mouth twisting to one side. “Still better than risking draining  _you_  just to be satisfied.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped away from him. “One time, Oliver,  _one time_  you took too much, and you were  _dying_. You never come even close to draining me.” She snagged his hand and tugged him around to follow her up her stoop to the door. “We both know you get sated easier when you feed live.” She dropped his hand to pull her house key from her cardigan pocket. “Besides. We were interrupted earlier by bad guys doing bad things.”

She gave him a smile over her shoulder as the tumblers clicked and she pressed the door open. “Better to finish what we started.”

He stood dumbstruck on the threshold for a beat while she passed into the entry. His lashes fluttered, but he wrenched himself from the the heated whispers her unintentional double entendre stirred in his head.

Clearing his throat again, he stepped inside and shut and locked the door behind him, fingers busying themselves by pulling the zip of his leather motorcycle jacket down. He hung it neatly on the hook on the wall, gathering his control.

When he looked up, Felicity was waiting between the entries to the living room and kitchen, a thumb hooked in either direction and brows raised in question. He hesitated only a second before nodding toward the living room.

She preceded him in, turning on the lights and heading for the couch, which she dropped onto with a deep sigh. “I just want you to know, when you’re done with me I may not move from this spot ever again. How is this  _still_  Wednesday?”

Quirking an amused, familiar smirk over at her Robin Hood poster—a gift from her Old Hollywood-loving mother he knew, but it was still fun to tease her about it—Oliver pulled his phone out of his back pocket and checked the time. “Technically, it’s very, very early Thursday.”

She craned her head to look over at him just inside the entry, wincing and rubbing at the her neck, and raised an eyebrow. “Then get over here, the midnight oil is burning. I  _will_  fall asleep on you.”

He laughed softly, a little tension unwinding from his shoulders, even as razors of _need_  sliced at his guts. “I’ll throw a blanket over you before I leave.”

She rolled her eyes, following him with her gaze as he crossed to sit beside her.

She winced again as she turned her head, hand still covering her neck, and at last Oliver frowned. He reached out and took her wrist, tugging gently until she let him lower her hand to her lap.

His eyes went wide, and guilt soured in his mouth. “Shit.”

Frowning quizzically, Felicity reached up to touch her neck again where his eyes lingered, but he caught her fingers, then dropped them to gently trace the livid, purpling bruise on the side of her throat, two barely-closed punctures in the center.

She hissed a pained breath, and he snatched his hand away. “Felicity, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Oh,” her voice was soft, the “oh” more of a “duh.” “The bite,  _that’s_  why. I didn’t even think about why it was so sore.”

Oliver huffed in aggravation. “We were interrupted, but I still should’ve taken the time to take care of this properly. Damn it. You’ll be days healing from this one, now.” He met her eyes, his brow a furrow of shame. “I’m so sorry, Felicity.”

She shrugged with her mouth. “There were big, important emergency things going on. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt, or that it’s not gonna suck to wear scarves for the next few days. But I’m not going to rake you over the coals for this one, either. Neither should you.”

He gave her a look. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“It’s fine, you can just bite on your not-usual side this time.” She frowned, gaze turning inward. “Is it weird that you have a  _usual_  side of my neck to bite?” Squinting, she absently began to gather her hair to cover the bruise. “Probably not weirder than you being a vampire. Oh well.”

“Felicity.” Oliver licked his lips and tried not to stare at her throat. “I need to go. I can’t do this.”

She looked at him like he was crazy, or possibly just really annoying. “Oliver Queen, if you  _dare_  walk out of this house without drinking my blood, I will make you regret it.” She closed her eyes, head shaking minutely. “Which I realize sounds absolutely ridiculous in real, out loud words, but I stand by it. Sit. Whatever.”

Despite himself, he huffed a laugh, cutting it off in a sigh. “Felicity, how well do you think you’ll be able to bend that side of your neck right now?”

She frowned and experimentally put her head to the right, instantly yelping and carefully straightening.

“Yeah, I thought as much.” He rolled his lips together and nodded shortly. “No way you can hold that long enough for me to drink. It’s not happening tonight, I’ll make due.”

He went to rise, but she slapped her hand down on his knee and glared at him. “Can’t you just drink from my wrist or whatever? You’ve done that with Digg.”

Leveling her with a wry stare, Oliver plucked her hand off his knee and turned it in his grip, showing her the inside of her wrist and stroking a fingertip over the soft skin, tracing the thin blue veins visible just underneath. “Felicity, have you noticed you’re tiny? Your entire wrist is barely a mouthful. And the thin skin,” he circled the pad of his fingertip over the joint, “all these bones and nerves… the wrist is just about the most painful option there is. Digg picks it because he doesn’t want me sucking on his neck.” He quirked a brow aloft. “Which I pretty much agree with him on.”

He was staring at her wrist, at his fingernail tracing up and down the lines and branches of her blue, blue veins, feeling the tiny pulses of her blood moving through the capillaries travel up his finger, an echo sitting in his mouth, heavy on his tongue. His fangs pushed at his upper lip, scraped sharp over the lower.

Her pulse was hypnotic. He hadn’t so much as opened her vein and already he felt drunk on her, drunk on the thirst for her pouring down his throat. Everything seemed to go loose, easy and breathing in a soft, red, red, haze.

Felicity’s breath caught, louder than a gunshot, and Oliver’s gaze snapped to her face, his pupils blowing wide and the tip of his tongue wetting his lips. She was watching his face, eyes wide and fixed, lips parted and damp.

Oliver’s finger went still, and his hand tightened on her wrist.

Felicity blinked and very suddenly cleared her throat. Oliver inhaled sharply, shaking his head and gingerly probing one extended fang with his tongue. He loosened his grip on her wrist with deliberate care, swallowing hard as she slid her hand slowly from his grasp and laid it in her lap.

Her heartbeat was so  _loud_. Steady, heavy, throbbing. Quick.

“Um,” she cleared her throat again, but every hair on Oliver’s body stood to attention at the throaty quality of her voice, and he couldn’t help the starved way he stared at her. “What… ah, what about the inside of my elbow? Like… where they draw blood?”

He couldn’t help himself. It was all he could do not to crowd her onto her back and pick a favorite artery—or all of them—and latch on. So it was a much lesser surrender of will to put his fingertips back to her wrist and skate them up the inside of her arm, gathering the sleeve of her cardigan as he went until he exposed her elbow, stroking the soft hollow at the bend. “Still hurts. A little less than the wrist. A lot more than the neck.” He closed his eyes with a sigh, rubbing his fingers back and forth against her skin, her pulse. “Veins are still small, bones close to the surface, a lot of nerve endings. It’s a bite, not a little needle-prick. It will hurt you.”

He opened his eyes to half-mast, found hers—closely, raptly watching him—and murmured lowly, “I don’t want to hurt you, Felicity.”

She swallowed, throat bobbing, and he stared, tucking his bottom lip under his fangs, sucking on it. The long exhale she released shook. “Where… would be good then? An artery?”

“Arteries are best. Thick, they tap well, flow beautifully.” He dragged in a ragged breath, the hunger clawing into his chest, desperate and needy. “Somewhere fleshy is best for the bite. Nerve endings aren’t as clustered. Throat is good, carotid.” Oliver longingly trailed his eyes down the thick vein in her throat, down her shoulder and arm, where his fingers followed their path til they dropped off her palm to her leg, spreading over the soft cloth of her skirt. Her leg twitched under his grasping hand, and his voice was a dreamy hush as he continued, “The femoral is perfect. Thighs are fleshy. Doesn’t hurt more than a pinch. And it bleeds  _so_  well.”

He sighed, his thumb finding where Felicity’s femoral artery ran under her skin, strong with the beat of her heart, the siren song of her blood. His stroking caught on her skirt, dragged the hem up, and once the rough pad of his thumb slid over smooth, warm skin, Felicity gasped, jolting like she’d been electrified.

Oliver went very still. Stared at his hand on Felicity’s leg, and alternately wanted to snatch it away and replace it with his mouth. Screwing his eyes shut, he focused on breathing evenly through his nose, battling down the roaring thirst that begged,  _demanded_  to taste her.

“…Sorry,” He croaked. He started to withdraw his hand from her leg, and it was like ripping off his arm to do—

—and then Felicity pressed her hand down hard over his, stopping him. “No.” Oliver’s chin jerked up and he stared at her, wide-eyed, breath held. She looked back, nervous but steady, bottom lip bitten between her teeth. “Do it.”

He should protest. He knew he should protest. Opened his mouth to deny, demur, come up with some other—any other—solution. His mouth worked, but nothing came out, and his fingers dug into her skin.

He wanted. He wanted it, wanted her, wanted to bite into her thigh like the flesh of a peach, let her spill hot and salt-copper into his mouth.  _Needed_  her. “Felicity…”

She licked her lips quickly, shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s just—it’s practical. The best option given the circumstances.” She dropped her eyes to her hand on top of his—to his thumb stroking her skin again, and when did he start that back up?—and dragged her much-abused lower lip between her teeth. “Honestly, at this point you’re so strung out I’m not sure I could live with myself, sending you out there hungry. This is—this is the best option.”

If he were a better man he would say no.

Oliver hadn’t been a good man for such a  _long_  time.

He flipped his hand underneath hers to catch and raise her fingers to his lips, pressing a fang-bumped kiss hard and quick to her knuckles. “Thank you.” He set her hand down on the couch cushions between them, looked up at her through his lashes. “I won’t take more than I need to get home. It won’t hurt.”

She sighed, unsteady and long. “I’m really not worried about that, Oliver.”

He stood abruptly, and she watched him, apprehensive, tense. He held her gaze as he shuffled directly in front of her, nudging at her knees with his shins. Not breaking eye contact, she tucked her lips and scooted fully against the couch back, parting her knees as he lowered himself to kneel before her.

He braced his hands just below her knees, sliding his broad palms up her soft skin, pushing them just a little wider—desperately trying to ignore the whimpering catch in her breath even as he committed it furiously to memory. “Just…” his fingers reached the hem of her skirt against her thighs, twitching against it. “Can you fold this up a little?”

Felicity breathed in and out hard and fast three times. “Oh boy.” She caught his eye and nodded, color high in her cheeks as she shifted to pull her skirt up an inch, another—one more, til he nodded approval. All but the tops of her thighs were bare now, and she pooled the cloth between her legs, tucking the extra fabric underneath her self-consciously.

Her thighs were bare and golden-creamy under his hands, skin warm. Oliver swallowed hard, mouth watering and longing to touch. Inhaling deeply, voice a rasp, he asked, “Could you— scoot forward some? A little more. More. Yeah—that’s good.”

He flicked his gaze up to her face—flushed deep red as she sat now at the edge of the cushions, legs parted wide to accommodate him—and then back down to her thighs. He ran his left hand higher up her right thigh, then back down, thumb finding her thrumming artery again and rubbing circles.

“This one?” he asked, his tone embarrassingly needy. “Here?”

“Um.” She clenched both hands on the cushion-edge, knuckles whitening. “Sure. Should I…?”

“No.” He shook his head and sat back on his heels, getting lower. He scooped his hand beneath her leg and lifted, hooked her knee over his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

“Oh, shit,” she breathed, eyes squeezing shut. “Okay. Okay. Oh, god, I feel like I should warn you, you know since you’re down there and all, and, wow, that’s a hell of a picture, imagination doesn’t do you justice—Um!” her eyes flew open as his went wide, brows jumping high, mouth open as she blushed impossibly deeper. “Forget I said that. I just mean, I mean, you, kneeling there, my leg like—like that. Just.  _That’s_  been a while for me, so please,  _please_  forgive me any extremely mortifying noises I make, you know—during.” Her hands flew to cover her face, and she groaned into them. “Oh my god.”

He couldn’t help the crooked smirk that curled his lips any more than he could stop his tongue tracing over his fangs. “If you can forgive me for  _doing_  this, I think I can forgive you for that.”

She stayed hidden behind her hands, but some of the tension leaked out of her shoulders with a deep breath and slow exhale. Covering just her eyes and cheeks now, she breathed, “Okay, so, how do we— _oh_.”

Unable to resist any longer, Oliver bent forward and licked a stripe along her inner thigh, prepping the site. If he was a little more… lingering than utilitarian, he would add it to his many sins later. Choosing just the spot he wanted, he rested his open mouth against her skin and  _breathed_ , his dull bottom teeth scraping gently against her skin when she broke out in goosebumps.

Shifting his grip on the outside of her thigh, Oliver opened his mouth wide as he might to bite into an apple, poising the points of his fangs against her skin, over that singing artery. He would have to bite deep.

Squeezing her other leg to distract her, he bit down, hard and fast, the sharp double puncture startling a pained cry out of Felicity. Smothering his pang of guilt, he buried his fangs deep into her giving flesh, then pulled them back out just slightly. Blood welled from the wounds and spilled, his tongue lapping quick against her skin to catch the spill. It flowed into his mouth, rich and heady, and Oliver groaned loud and deep, eyes sliding shut and brows screwing up in reverence.

Above him, Felicity stifled a whimper, and he brought his other hand to cradle her thigh as well, tilting his head—his fangs tearing, widening the punctures and making her hiss—his tongue a constant stroke against her skin. After the first hot pulses from the wound, Oliver withdrew his teeth, sealing his mouth over the site and sucking hard to draw a deeper pull.

Felicity yelped—pain, surprise—and Oliver gentled, suckling softly, working the wounds with his lips and tongue. After a few moments, her rigidity began to relax, and she loosed a tremulous exhale. His hunger still a dark, prowling swirl in his gut, Oliver began to massage her leg with one hand, and scraped her skin with his bottom teeth again.

She shivered.

His stomach tightened, nostrils flaring—and there was no mistaking the earthy musk of her arousal. He was inches away from her—and when he laved his tongue long and slow across her skin, dipping his chin to catch an escaping droplet of blood, the scent grew stronger. He could  _taste_  how he was turning her on.

He filled his mouth gently with her flesh and hummed, smug, and she swore and whimpered. Her fingertips brushed against his hair before jerking away.

Opening his eyes, Oliver turned his head slightly and kept his mouth against her skin—tongue lapping and stroking to catch every taste of her blood that pumped from the already closing holes in her artery. He spotted her left hand, white-knuckling on the couch edge again, and reached out to pull it from the cushion.

He couldn’t see her face from this angle, not without pulling away from her leg, and he wasn’t willing to do that. So he didn’t see her expression when he dropped her hand atop his head, but he was so tuned to the sound of her breathy, throaty moan—fingers curling into his short hair—that a shiver ripped down his spine at the sound.

He opened his mouth wide again and dragged the points of his fangs down her skin—a tease—stopping them over the previous punctures and gently,  _so_  gently biting back down, opening them back up just a little, just a little  _more_ , a little longer.

“Shit,” Felicity breathed, the heel of her shoe digging against his shoulder blade. “Oh, shit, shit shit shit.”

Oliver pulled his teeth quickly back out and sealed his lips around the wound in a caress that was more a kiss than a bite, content to rest there and lap at the sluggish flow of blood before the wounds closed and cut him off. He exhaled a contented sigh through his nose, breath hot against her skin.

Her left leg jumped against his shoulder, and she tugged hard at his hair. “Mmm.”

At last, there was nothing but trace smears, the holes he’d tapped in her vein sealing under the assistance of his stroking tongue. He licked attentively at the area, red from his sucking mouth and the burn of his stubble. It was only so he wouldn’t leave her thigh like he had her neck.

Of course it was.

Felicity was breathing fast and hard above him, the hand in his hair scrubbing over and over at his scalp, sending tingles down the back of his neck, straight to the base of his spine.

Shit.

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut tight and held his open mouth against Felicity’s skin, realizing all too belatedly that he was  _achingly_  hard in his cargo pants, and the rich, thick scent of Felicity’s arousal so close to his face was doing absolutely nothing to lessen the problem.

Neither, of course, was the way her thigh filled his hands, soft but firm, skin hot and so, so smooth. Nor was the way he  _couldn’t seem to stop_  darting the tip of his tongue out to taste the site of his bite one more time.  _One_  more time. One more.  _One more_  scrape of his bottom teeth over the skin below the punctures.

Felicity moaned, muffled in a clenched jaw.

God damn it.

Carefully, with incredible discipline, Oliver closed his lips over his receding fangs—and kept himself from pressing a kiss to her leg—and dropped his head to rest his brow against her.

He sat there and breathed, careful, rationed measures, mustering his body back under tenuous control.

He couldn’t do this again—not ever again. Feeding at Felicity’s femoral could all too easily become an addiction, the only thing that could ever slake his lust—bloodlust. He couldn’t risk it.

At the crown of his head, Felicity opened her fingers and smoothed her palm down to the nape of his neck, breathing carefully herself as she soothingly rubbed across the back of his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was the furthest thing from steady, trembling at the edges and rough in her throat.

And yet she was  _comforting him_.

Hunger sated, quiet awe unfurled in Oliver's chest and he turned his cheek against her thigh to finally look up into her face. Her eyes were dark, pupils all but drowning the blue, lids heavy, and her lips were red and swollen from biting at them. Color flushed high across her cheekbones, but even so her expression was tender with concern.

She was the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d seen in his undeserved life.

Sliding his eyes shut slow, Oliver nodded, guiltily enjoying the rub of his rough beard against her smooth skin. He opened his eyes again to find her smiling at him soft and nervous.

It took everything,  _every_  scrap of his will not to turn his face and press a reassuring kiss to her leg.

Swallowing roughly, he gingerly unhooked her knee from his shoulder and sat up straight. At least his incredibly inappropriate libido was back under control.

Clearing his throat, Oliver leveraged himself to his knees, and then stood, quickly backing out from between Felicity’s legs. Awkwardly, she brought her knees together and began to rearrange her skirt, looking anywhere but at him as he stood in front of her.

“Felicity.” He waited until she looked up at him. Infusing his expression with earnest sincerity,  he leaned down enough to set his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. Truly. I—I can’t—”

“Oliver,” she smiled up at him, tired and strangely relieved. “You’re welcome. It’s fine. Okay?”

He smoothed his hands uneasily up and down over the hips of his cargo pants. It wasn’t fine, not at all. “Okay.” He blew out a long sigh, and as much as he wanted to bolt, to get the hell away from her—to scoop her up and find her bedroom—he would return as much of the monumental favor she had done him as he was able. “Come on.”

She stared at him in confusion as he held out his hands and, rolling his eyes and allowing a small smile, he leaned down and took her hands in his, gently pulling. “Up. I’m not going until you’re in the kitchen with some electrolytes and carbs.”

She laughed quietly and allowed him to tug her to her feet—and to catch her with a soft exclamation of alarm when her knees nearly buckled.

“I’m fine, I’ll be  _fine_ ,” she grumped, patting his chest as he circled an arm behind her back. “Look, you can walk me to the kitchen if you want, but I am not an invalid and I  _will_  poke you in the eye if you try to pick me up.”

Oliver chuckled, and tried to be as hands off as possible as she made her unsteady procession back through the entryway and into the kitchen, his hands mostly hovering rather than touching—mostly.

He would not, however, allow her to argue when he told her to take a seat at the counter, and rummaged in her fridge and pantry for a Gatorade and couple of chocolate chip protein bars.

He left her in the kitchen, replenishing what he’d taken from her, with another profound thank you and gentle squeeze of her shoulder.

He made it all the way to his bike before the crippling guilt—and strangling desire that had nothing to do with blood—began to eat him from the inside out.


End file.
